Free The Venice Conspiracy by Jon Trace

his head, please. I must not make a mistake here.’
    Huge hands grasp Teucer’s delicate head. His legs shake with pain as Larthuza pulls fragments from his scorched eyes.
    By nightfall the cleansing is completed.
    Once more Larthuza layers cool, wet ram’s wool over the seer’s damaged face then makes him drink a long potion of valerian and pomegranate. Both doctor and patient are exhausted.
    ‘He will sleep now - and sleep for a long time,’ the healer whispers to Tetia. ‘We will leave him here and you may stay with him. Throughout the night the wool must be changed regularly, you understand?’
    ‘I know my duties. I will not forget them nor sleep until they are completed.’
    ‘Good child.’ He looks towards Teucer’s father. ‘At dawn I will apply a poultice of feverfew and some essential oils. At nightfall I will give you oil of rough bindweed that must be massaged into the skin. And then, if the fury within him has died away, you may take him home.’
    Venthi has been sitting, knees bent, back against the wall near his son. He rises now, old joints cracking as he does. ‘I am thankful for your work and will bring you payment on the morrow.’
    Larthuza waves a hand dismissively. ‘There is no need. My only desire is that young Teucer is well again. Like myself, he is chosen to serve.’
    Venthi’s strong face becomes vulnerable. ‘Tell me, on the word of Turan, the great goddess of health and love, will my son ever see again?’
    ‘My old friend, that is up to her and the other deities. I have done all I can. Now we must pray and offer sacrifices. His vision is solely in their hands.’
    CAPITOLO X
    The House of Atmanta

    After feasting for hours, Pesna and his closest companions are in the spa, being washed and oiled by whores and servants.
    Most of the magistrate’s coterie are fools, but he tolerates them because they are pretty fools. Some, like Larth, are deadly fools. What Larth lacks in wisdom he makes up for in menace. As chief of Pesna’s guards he is cruelly adept at dispensing any punishments the magistrate decrees.
    The wise ones, like Kavie, are rare. Always quiet, always thoughtful, seldom wrong in his counsel, Kavie as usual has separated himself from the crowd. Less drunk than the rest, he is being bathed in the far corner by two of the prettiest pages Pesna has ever employed.
    ‘If I do not celebrate more,’ proclaims the magistrate, ‘there is a danger that when I die I will have amassed too many riches to spend even in the afterlife.’
    His cronies laugh sycophantically.
    ‘Perhaps there is an afterlife after the afterlife,’ suggests Hercha, a local woman who has become a regular in his bed. Her hair has been freshly braided by servant girls and she constantly plays with it as she speaks. ‘If I am correct, then maybe you are well advised to hold back some of your vast wealth so you will perpetually be able to live in the manner to which you have grown accustomed.’
    Pesna slips off his robe and steps into the steaming water alongside Kavie. ‘Since when did I allow a mere woman to give me advice? I advise you to keep your mouth solely for my pleasure and not for publicly flaunting your stupidity.’ He beckons a servant: ‘Girl, bring me wine. Cold wine from the fermenting rooms beneath the courtyard. Make sure it is not tepid. If it is, then Larth will whip your hide.’
    The naked servant goes about her business and Larth slaps a giant hand across her buttocks as she passes him.
    Ushering his washer away, Kavie turns his back on the other revellers. ‘I hear news of trouble in the south.’
    Pesna skims a hand over the surface of the water. ‘In Rome?’
    ‘Not in Rome. More of Rome.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Many of the city kings are growing fearful of Rome. People of power and purpose are drawn to the Tiber. It is early days, but the region’s arrogant nobles already speak of wider rule. This would be a threat to your own ambitions to extend your